


I say how high ⋆ ~a story of alto~

by silverskys



Series: soul of celestial origins ⋆ ~crown of the sorrowful~ [2]
Category: IDOLiSH7 (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hoshi Meguri (IDOLiSH7), Ambiguous Relationships, Bugs, Gen, Mentions of Terrorism, Other, Sharing a Bed, and you know general war atrocities, calls the toraharu planet alto bc I'm a horrible little tennharu gremlin, haruka isumi overthrew the government, horrible sleep habits, if you like orieri you will probably like this dynamic, invalid sci-fi science, more worldbuilding than anyone could ever need, not actually haruka or torao they are basically ocs lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24343351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverskys/pseuds/silverskys
Summary: The second of two prequel stories to a Celestial Pilgrimage sequel, introducing a new planet — or moon, rather — and two new characters. The first chapter contains any required background information (character names, conditions of the moon, etc.) and the second chapter is a narrative story of the characters introduced.Featured: Adamant(Midou Torao)and Scoria(Isumi Haruka)as residents of two different countries of Alto, a Bestian moonsuggested listening:"Hashitairo" by rionos
Relationships: Isumi Haruka & Midou Torao
Series: soul of celestial origins ⋆ ~crown of the sorrowful~ [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1621708
Kudos: 9





	1. alto — a summary

## Alto

_Moon of Luminescence_

Alto's Origins

The moon of Alto itself is a very large asteroid, captured by Bestia's enormous gravity. The weather is known to be very polarizing, resulting in vast rainforests and harsh deserts spread across the moon's surfaces. Despite the lack of available resources to survive, the deserts are home to pockets of rare, valuable metals underneath their surface.

The People of Alto

Much of Alto's land is divided into countries along the ilnes of their terrain. As it's much easier to find food and shelter among the rainforests, a majority of the population of Alto hails from there. The people from there are much taller and bulkier than their desert counterparts, who live primarily underground in extensive tunnel systems. Their bodies tend to be slimmer, shorter, and leaner in order to better navigate these labyrinths. Distrust and conflict is rampant between desert and rainforest countries, as many of the latter have a very recent history of exploiting desert countries' people and destroying their societies in order to gain access to the metals underneath the desert sands.

Altan Culture & Society

Altans place immense value on height. Having particularly small chilren is considered a bad omen, and it is not uncommon to abandon these children to the elements. This cultural value originates from the rainforest countries as a way to exert social power over their colonies' people, and synthesized into the society of desert countries through their heavy-handed and violent 'influence'.

Heavy adornment, especially of the hair and ears, is another very common element of status. Metal is considered particularly valuable, and a lack of adornment is a terrible social faux-pas among high society.

A wave of uprisings in desert colonies occurred many years ago, putting an end to Alto's imperial era, and the rainforest countries of Alto are most definitely still struggling to restructure their societies — and their thinking. Many individuals are unwilling to change and still do exert influence in society, but this is being combated as thoroughly as possible through the ground-up restructuring of the government and social systems. Still, within desert countries, there is much-needed infrastructure work to be done to ensure ease of access to resources for all individuals residing there.

Adamant & Scoria

Adamant _(Midou Torao)_ is a former prince of Edera, the country considered to be of the most influence in all of Alto. Alto's royal family was relegated to a puppet position upon a successful coup staged by Scoria _(Isumi Haruka)_. Adamant was key in successfully staging this coup, and now serves as Scoria's secretary.

Scoria, now Edera's emperor, is by necessity extremely hard-working, distrustful, and vigilant against threats. He maintains an air of power and control at all times. He's always working, always on guard, and the primary purpose of Adamant's job is to keep Scoria's health in check.

While emperor of Edera currently, Scoria does not intend to stay in this position forever. He is unwanted by much of the native population due to his past actions of ecological warfare, but considers his position currently necessary to bringing change to Edera. When his work is done, someday, he hopes to return to Catrame, his home country, and install infrastructure and technology that will make the lives of the Catramean people easier, healthier, and safer.


	2. I say how high

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The origins of Adamant _(Midou Torao)_ and Scoria _(Isumi Haruka)_. Begins with Scoria narrating in the present, and swaps POV with Adamant, narrating in the past. Please check out the suggested listening for this chapter as well!
> 
> _suggested listening:["Kamikaze" by Owl City, instrumental version](https://youtu.be/hjQP8KisZPM)_

Another colony of dust blooms in the air as Scoria clears the files above him. He coughs thickly, grateful, for the umpteenth time today, for his desert-born lungs. Similar families of forgotten files sit piled against every high shelf in his study, and Scoria frowns deeply. It occurs to him again that he should have the shelves adjusted to his height, as Adamant has suggested on countless occasions with growing terseness. And logically, he should. But the pleasure of conquering heights so beyond him, even in small forms, is too great a delight to deny himself.

Scoria does not clean often. He cannot afford to, his schedule packed with diplomatic meetings, sessions in traders' courts, wasteful (and dangerous) assemblies with the royal family. His study, entirely his own save for Adamant, fairs worse than the others. With no palace staff to clean after him, friendly layers of dust inhale the hot, wet heat of Ederean country, the one saving grace of his untidiness. This ugly temperate atmosphere has in part returned to the room as he cleaned, and when Scoria inhales, the humidity sticks to his insides, choking and slimy. His vision blurs. He reaches one hand forward to steady himself against the bookcase, but his heel has already slipped from the stool, and the floor rises to meet him.

Pain spikes through the haze in his mind, but the slices of agony that follow broken bones do not come, and Scoria lets out of a sigh of relief. The ceiling is distant above him, shaken and clouded, and Scoria lies still until clarity returns. Is he ill…? But no, he didn't note a fever or chill earlier, and he can't recall an insect bite, so it must be… … exhaustion. He scowls, grits his teeth, and hauls himself upright. A fresh sandstorm of dizziness crosses his mind, but as he holds himself firm, it passes, and he returns to cleaning. By comparison, the task is nothing.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Someone is watching him.

Adamant can feel the steady chill at his back, hairs standing on end. If he weren't born into riches and power, and thus accustomed to the violent inklings of those lesser than him, he wouldn't have noticed, not in this dry-dust room in a different land. He's already chilled, but this feeling is different… and hateful.

He shifts his eyes around the room slowly, but it's no use; they won't adjust to the darkness. The darkness in his home country is far balmier, ebbed by the glow of luminous insects, plants, fungi. Here, nothing glows, nothing flourishes. He almost scoffs, disgusted, but making a sound may be a death sentence. His assassin could be anywhere in this room.

In the corner of his vision, a brief light flashes. His gaze darts to the corner, but he sees nothing but darkness. Had he imagined it? No, it appears again, a brief spark of red-gold light. Is it a fire? No, there's no smoke, but goodness knows what could even catch fire in this land of rocks and sand, and how. Unwillingly he rises from the sheets, squinting at the flashes of light. The only thing there is a coat rack from his home country, his travel clothing slung over the embellished hooks. … had his garments caught fire in the deathly dry air?

And then he feels it. The chill of metal against his throat, from the opposite side. The sparks were a distraction after all.

He doesn't speak, though plenty of words rumble angrily in his throat. His assassin remains still, silent, and though the room is dark, Adamant can feel them watching his reaction. Now that he's aware of them, he can pick out their silhouette, faintly. They're short, very short, and slender — a woman, maybe?

The light blinks again in the corner of Adamant's vision, though he dares not to look.

"Leave this place."

"Right now?" Adamant answers. It's intended to be sarcastic, but the assassin just laughs. Their voice isn't distinctly masculine or feminine, but there's roughness to it, something scarred. Not an easily forgettable voice, which will go far in trial.

"In the morning. Return to your country, Prince Adamant of Edera, and say that you were wrong. Grovel at your relatives' feet and tell them you've had a change of heart. You pity the people of Catrame. Using them is cruel, for they're piteous and poor, and you'd like to help raise them up into a people that Edera could be proud to call friends, neighbors, people. Speak publically and loudly." The words of the assassin's instructions are delivered steadily, without emotion.

Adamant scoffs, his throat edging dangerously against the blade. "And you expect something dishonest like that to work? I'd merely be disinherited."

"That's not for you to worry about." Again, the same tone.

"And if I don't go, you'll kill me?"

"You'll go."

"And what of my staff, my attendants?" At first Adamant was almost afraid, but now he understands. This stranger's plan is thin, shallow. It's a truly useless fight.

"You'll notice none of them are here."

A chill rises on Adamant's spine. There's not a sound around him. "It is nighttime," he acknowledges. It would do naught but harm to show fear.

"And in the morning, it will be the same."

"Did you kill them?" The incredulity creeps into Adamant's tone against his wishes.

"No."

"Then what?"

Silence.

"… the light, what was it?"

The assassin, his unwelcome visitor, hesitates for a moment. "Fire-worm," they answer. "Grubs, they live underground."

"… there are things that glow here, then."

"If you look." The blade flicks away from his throat, and the visitor slips away into the murk of the house, swiftly and soundlessly. Adamant is left alone, grabbing at breath in the dense, dry darkness.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Time slows to an unrelenting crawl, minutes dragging through the damp, steamy air. One bookshelf cleaned and tidied is no more than a chink in the armor of his disarrayed study, a more horrifying foe than anyone Scoria faced during his time as a rebel. No battle, no enemy could be more daunting than the one before him. The wet air around him stinks of old dust.

"Emperor?"

The voice, so sudden that Scoria loses his balance and very nearly slams against the floor again, comes from outside the door. Adamant. No one else would dare disturb him. He bites back a snarl, instinctual under stress, and takes a deep breath. "Come in," he croaks, before uselessly dissolving into a coughing fit, choking on inhaled dust. He doesn't need to look up to know the exact shift in Adamant's expression, the pace of his footsteps— his sigh is enough.

When he regains his voice, no longer struggling for air, he looks up, still precariously balanced on the stool. Adamant is watching him, motionless but clearly annoyed. His body, much bigger than Scoria's, is planted firmly in front of the unfinished shelf.

"And how long are you going to stand there? You're in the way."

Adamant just hums in response, eyes sparking with the faintest hint of amusement. Scoria scowls, and steps off the stool. His secretary watches as he nimbly lifts the stool and hauls himself elsewhere. The moment Scoria looks away, there he is again, his hulking form planted firmly in the way of his task. They perform this song and dance twice more, Adamant always a step ahead. It's for show — Scoria understands this even as he walks away, picks up the stool, deepens his scowl — but it's an important routine, vital to maintaining his manicured sense of control.

"You win," Scoria finally admits, the stool hanging limply in his hand. Adamant nods, smirks, and offers his hand, so much larger than his own.

"May I put that away for you?" He nods to the stool.

"Absolutely not. Don't push your luck." Tightening his grip, Scoria strides away. The closet where the stool belongs is already free of clutter and dust, and Scoria fits it snugly into place, well within his reach. Never mind that Adamant would have put it in the same place.

"Will you ever let me feel useful?" Adamant laments, his tone dramatized. Scoria briefly meets his eyes, paused with one hand on the door. "I'm not in the business of letting people tell lies about themselves."

"How cruel."

The door shuts heavy behind them, locking into place.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

"Control of the Catramean settlement was lost in full yesterday. Rebel bastards found… some manner of neutralizing agent for the gas, and they killed most of the remaining soldiers. Razed the entire above-ground settlement to the ground, too."

Adamant's retainer tells him this a few weeks later, having heard it from a trader docking at the island for the week. The man's tone is casual, but the remark is meant to hurt him, he knows. Without his complete failure as a supervisor for the colony, those people wouldn't be dead, would they? You should have done better, Adamant. The implication is there, tangible. That's what he's supposed to think.

And it does sting, but only his pride. He thinks of the voice in the dark again, not for the first time. And he thinks, too, of the fire-worm, the tiny glowing spark. When the soldiers released the gas into the tunnels, did the larvae die? Did they drop from the walls, staining the rocks with fire as they were trampled underfoot? The glow, did it last? Are they still glowing down there, their corpses stiff as dried tar?

"Pay attention." Adamant's retainer clicks his tongue.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

"Wait here."

"Of course."

Scoria shuts the door to his bedroom behind him, sliding to the floor. His head pounds furiously, legs quivering and uneasy beneath him. Once again, he reaffirms to himself that no, he has shown no signs of becoming ill. But to be reduced to a shivering mess just by walking the halls of the palace… He fights back another wave of nausea. He has to be more careful. Any sign of weakness could end in his death here. This is not the familiar tunnels of Catrame. Here, he has enemies everywhere. And worse than enemies, he has friends who could lose faith in him. And that lost faith could be exploited to destroy everything he's worked for, beginning with himself.

Scoria unfastens his boot buckles, fumbling dumbly with the straps. Adamant is right— he should rest. He can't risk being seen, or heard, in such a state. One fall could be charmingly passed off as being too focused on his task, inattentive to his surroundings. More than one is already cause for question.

Scoria stands to remove his overclothes, gritting his teeth through the stomach-churning dizziness, leaning against the bed frame. The curtains of the canopy tickle his bare shoulders with the barest of touches.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Through his years of detention in the port isle, Adamant has become accustomed to the churns and swells of angry waves, but this is clearly not the case for whoever has sequestered themselves within the ship's hold. Out of earshot of his retainer, Adamant sighs, hauling open the door to the hold. He would rather catch a nap through what he can of the storm, but with his freedom so close at hand, he can't chance losing it. And because of what, a dreadfully-seasick potential stowaway?

The retching goes quiet with the first creak, and if it were only up to sound, the target of his search would have been entirely lost. But the bile-and-seafood stink is sharp, fresh in the aged preserves of the hold. Adamant finds the remains of _that_ fairly quickly.

Its producer, however, is nowhere to be seen.

They're around, though, Adamant realizes. It's the tingling, buzzing, itching, the frantic chilled rash spread over his body. The feeling of being watched, with violent intent.

With a crash of thunder, the ship lurches violently, and he's forced to grapple for the bars of a crate to keep from falling. His hand finds hold, tightens around it. The sensation on his back grows stronger, fiercer. It's almost as if he's on fire now.

The ship settles again, and Adamant draws in a tense breath, only to have it torn out of him by a sharp tug on the back of his shirt. His back is slammed against the crate, neck jarred sharply backwards.

"Don't move," a voice hisses.

Adamant goes immediately still. The voice burns with familiarity, rough and alive, instantly recognizable.

"It's you, isn't it? The one with the fire-worm."

The grip against his shirt loosens, only to return half a moment later with ferocious intensity. The stowaway is silent, but Adamant can feel their rage, scorching against his skin.

"I don't want to fight you." The words are out of his mouth before he can put meaning to them, and Adamant is surprised by their authenticity. And it comes as a surprise despite everything: poring over ancient files on Catramean wildlife and society late into the night, attuning his ears to any talk of its independence — or its fall, which never came — among traders and residents of the port, replaying the scene of his fall from grace every night in his mind. He's dreamed of this moment, this reunion, as much as he can't afford to admit it to himself.

"Adamant di Edera," is the response he receives, cut off by the stomach-churning sound — and smell — of seasickness. And amongst that sound, the door to the hold opens.

"Someone's coming," Adamant notes under his breath. And suddenly his knees buckle. He's on the ground. He's being moved, dragged.

The face of his would-be assassin isn't what he expected. His face is young but far too haggard, skin stretched across his skull. His illness, his hunger is evident, but his golden eyes burn with such ferocity and passion that Adamant is rendered motionless.

His stowaway doesn't take kindly to this. "Move, prince, or are you as useless as you were all those years ago?" With these words, he nimbly tucks himself out of sight, sheltered between stores of food within the crate. Footsteps. Adamant crawls after him, but his stowaway is so much smaller, so much lighter, so much faster. Decisive, strong, determined. But his eyes tell Adamant to move, so he moves. He's helpless to do otherwise.

"Who's there?" The voice of his retainer.

Beside him — no, not beside him, within his arms — his stowaway's body heaves. On instinct, though what instinct he doesn't know, Adamant clamps his hand over the smaller man's mouth, pulling his body closer to his own. Though his eyes are aglow in the dark, his heart beats frantically against Adamant's chest, feverish, unsteady. As footsteps pace towards them, Adamant's body imprints the moment to memory, just as it had before. Breath against his hand. Stiff, dry hair sticking to his neck, his chin. The burn of his stowaway's eyes against the darkness.

The voice of his retainer is far away in his mind. He will not remember it, not the words said, not the sound of his footsteps, not the scowl in his voice as he encounters the waste of seasickness, not the grunt of the ship's walls as the hold door closes. But the feeling of holding him, that's something Adamant will remember. He knows that now, feels it, as certain as the heartbeat in his chest.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

"You may come in."

Scoria intended to open the door himself, and would have, were it not for the blinding wave of dizziness imprisoning his body. It is all he can do to drag himself into bed, wrapping his limbs around himself in a desperate effort for warmth and reprieve. His nightclothes are already soaked with sweat.

The door swings open, and Adamant enters, footsteps heavy against the wooden floor. They grow lighter with the removal of his boots, his armor, and Scoria welcomes the weight of his much larger body against the mattress. He curls toward the weight, into Adamant's arms.

"Should I scold you, or would you consider that 'unnecessary,' Emperor?" With the words, he feels Adamant's breath on his scalp.

Scoria can't help but chuckle under his breath. "You can call me an idiot all you want if it helps you sleep at night."

"I'm not the person who needs to be sleeping at night." A pause. "You're a fucking moron, Scoria."

He laughs again, and his ribs violently protest it.

"Stop laughing at me."

"Absolutely not."

But he does stop, and shortly, his eyelids close under their own weight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I hope you were able to follow the change in POV just fine...! Scoria and Adamant are very important to me at this point, ahaha, so it'd make me happy if you could like them, too. ⋆
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/eienseiriron) / [CuriousCat](https://curiouscat.qa/forevernote)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, the boring stuff is over now, lol... Scoria and Adamant are so, so important to me, so I'd be happy if you read their story! Thank you so much!


End file.
